


Fearless

by emilytea10



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Stiles, Canon Typical Violence, Early Relationship, M/M, Protective Stiles, alpha pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilytea10/pseuds/emilytea10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was an axiom of Stilesian logic that he would overcome any fear, any obstacle for the protection of his loved ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fearless

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly darker and more violent than I usually go, but loves me some BAMF!Stiles. Add in a baseball bat for a weapon and we've got ourselves a party.
> 
> After the battle with the invading Alpha Pack, one wolf remains, and the pack hunts him down to eliminate the last threat.
> 
> “Beware; for I am fearless and therefore powerful.” Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

Stiles, for all his flailing and babbling, and the physicality of his wide gestures, wide smiles, and wider eyes, has always been a person thoroughly rooted in logic. The power of mentality; mind over matter. And after living through the death of his mother, he knew from then on he could do absolutely anything if he had to, if it kept the people he cared about safe. It was an axiom of Stilesian logic that he would overcome any fear, any obstacle for the protection of his loved ones.

A fact he was reminding himself of on a loop as he stepped into the darkened warehouse.

It’s not the Pack’s warehouse, rather an older, dirtier one further from town, where the Pack had been lured by the sole survivor from their earlier battle with the Alpha pack. Stiles could smell the trap from a mile away, and potentially so could Derek, which is most likely why he told Stiles to stay away earlier that evening. 

Stiles had been catching up on homework while Derek sat comfortably on his bed, reading a large leather bound tome he’d procured from Deaton (a strange but comfortable arrangement they’d come to, sitting and working in independent, mutual silence when Derek felt the intermittent need for a bit of space from his sassy uncle, but it was so much better than stilted small-talk or God forbid, more wall-slamming). 

They simultaneously received the same text from Scott, notifying them that he and Isaac had tracked the scent of the last Alpha to a building near the county line, and had even got a whiff of Erica and Boyd nearby. Predictably, the two young men argued about a course of action, Stiles insisting slow and sneaky was the best route and Derek agreeing… except for the part where Stiles is involved with any tactical action. The usual “I’m not just a useless human!” fight commenced, and they followed the script, until Derek finally blurted out in frustration his real reason to keep Stiles behind. 

“I just… I care about you too much to let you be in a situation where you could get hurt!”

Stiles froze, staring at Derek from across the room where he had turned to face the window. “I can’t see you get hurt again. Please.”

Suddenly, Stiles found himself across the room with his arms wrapped around Derek’s shoulders, forehead resting against the back of the werewolf’s neck. 

“I’ll stay if you promise me you won’t get hurt either. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Derek turned and returned Stiles’ embrace in ernest. Stiles inhaled deeply, savoring the silence and the smell of Derek’s leather jacket and deodorant, when another anxious sounding chirp alerted them to the Betas’ impatience. Derek pulled back and placed a soft kiss on Stiles’ forehead before slipping out the open window. 

“Text me!” the teen called out after him. “If I don’t hear from you in a hour, I’m coming after you!”

He received no answer beyond the lone howl of the Alpha calling his pack to his side. 

But when an hour had passed and the pack leader didn’t text him, Stiles panicked. Derek had missed the set check-in time (and subsequent dozen harried texts Stiles sent him), so true to his word, Stiles geared up and set out.

So here he was, in a giant, decrepit, cement room with only the moon light streaming in through the broken windows to see by (how romantic).  
Suddenly, Stiles notices a soft glow of red directly in front of him, twin points like hot embers.

“Derek?”

There’s a stuttered growl, almost like a throaty chuckle. Not Derek then. 

“I’m warning you, I’m armed!” Stiles calls into the darkness, squeezing the handle of his bat. The chuckle returns, this time as a half wolfed-out man steps into the light. Dark tattoos ripple as he crosses his arms across his barrel chest and his eyes are glowing a menacing red. Stiles swallows in an attempt to push his heart out of his throat.

“That’s cute, human, but I’m sure any toy you brought with you is going to fall a little short,” he snarls, taking slow, casually deliberate steps towards the teen. “We shouldn’t need weapons anyway,” the were shrugs and simultaneously returns to humanity. “Why don’t you just step back here with me and we can sort this all out, no violence necessary.”

Stiles barely keeps his eyes from rolling at the Alpha’s open arms. No violence when dealing with the supernatural? That’d be a first.

Instead, he gives a wary nod, lips in a tight line, and heads towards the back of the warehouse, the Alpha leading the way.

“What did you do with my Pack?” Stiles finally demands. He’s beginning to get anxious that he hasn’t even heard the growl of another wolf, nor has he felt the vague tug of connection he had begun to develop over the last few months, the tug that signaled his connection to his pack and their Alpha. Which means one of a few things: they aren’t in the warehouse, they’re unconscious, or… Well, Stiles just hopes it’s one of those.

“They’re fine, little human. They’re waiting for you, actually.”

That sounds frighteningly psychopathic, and Stiles has to immediately restrain himself from imagining glazed eyes, black pools of blood, shattered bones, and bruised skin… he’s nearly sick right there. But no, he can hold it together. For the Pack.

The stranger rounds a corner into what used to be an old break area, judging by the moth-eaten couch, shattered coffee pots, and pile of ash trays, where a couple fluorescent lights flicker unsettlingly over head. He leans against a wall with nonchalance and presents the scene with a sweeping hand. Stiles just barely stifles his gasp.

Unfortunately, his imagination, while stunningly creative, is actually sometimes closer to reality than he’d prefer. 

Isaac is laid on his side in front of the couch, bound at the wrists and ankles, dark, sticky blood coating his curls where his head rests on the cement floor. Scott is placed nearby, head lolling backwards against dusty cushions, one leg, if not both, broken horrendously. The half of Jackson’s perfect face not pushed into the couch is bruised purple and green, and it’s possible his shoulder’s been dislocated judging by the angle his arms are at (and with the accelerated healing, it’s also possible that they’ll have to re-break and set it properly later on, which won’t be enjoyable for anyone). Boyd and Erica, as far as he can tell, don’t have any external injuries, but they’re not conscious either, so that means little.

And then there’s Derek.

Stiles’ heart breaks at the sight of the Alpha, face covered in blood and bruises. His nose is most likely broken, his shirt ripped, revealing long gauges and frightening-looking burns, most likely from some sort of wolfsbane. He’s probably got more than his fair share of broken bones, but it’s difficult to tell from the crumpled way he’s curled up against the far wall. Stiles doesn’t realize he’s squeezing the hand wrapped around the bat into a tight fist until the rubber grip and his own knuckles creak in protest. 

“What the hell did you do? Why haven’t they all healed?” One Alpha versus another, plus 3, arguably 5, Betas; the damage should not have been this bad.

The Alpha just laughs at Stiles condescendingly, as if it’s obvious.

“I just gave them a little reminder of who’s the real leader around here. And the wolfsbane gas certainly didn’t hurt,” he gives a pointed nod to where a gas mask had been thrown on the ground. “Gotta tell ya’, that shit makes you itch something awful. But as long as you don’t breathe it in, you’re alright.”

But Stiles can’t listen to his gruff voice any longer, even as he goes on to describe how ferocious the pack would be under his command, after Stiles takes the bite, of course. Stiles’ blood is pounding in his ears as he takes in the sight of his best friend, his (sometimes begrudging) packmates, his… Derek, laying on the cold, sawdust covered floor, bleeding, broken, and beaten. This should have never happened. Derek promised they’d be safe. In any case, they are his wolves, they are invincible, they’re supposed to be the protectors. This is wrong and it’s as if Stiles’ brain doesn’t know how to take it all in. 

So it doesn’t. 

It latches on to the one thought that’s been running through his head since he left his house.

I must be fearless, I must protect; I will be fearless, I will protect.

“You’ve made a huge mistake.”

The strange Alpha’s lazy smile slips from his face.

“Excuse me?”

Stiles raises his head to look at the man, blinking the watery screen from his eyes.

“I said, you’ve made a mistake. You think you’re the big cheese here? Wrong. You probably don’t have any clue what you’re really dealing with.” 

The teen begins stepping… no, stalking towards the werewolf across the room from him. 

“See, you probably think I’m just a scared little human, right?” The stranger’s eyes widen in shock at Stiles’ bravado, but he doesn’t reply. “Well, you’d definitely be wrong. I’ve faced down wolves on their first moon; psychopathic Alphas, driven mad with grief; Hunters, omegas, murderers, I’ve been tortured and beaten…,” he laughs, but it’s without humor. “And I bet you’ve never even heard of a Kanima.”

Stiles comes to a halt, not half a foot from the Alpha’s face, and stares him straight in the eye; a very confrontational move for wolves and something Stiles probably wouldn’t have otherwise tried were he not slightly manic from the sight of blood and pounded flesh. 

“I’ve worked with expert archers, warlocks, and oh yeah, I’m the sheriff’s kid, so best fucking bet I know how to use a gun,” the teen spits. He’s seeing red and he can’t stop himself. His Fight or Flight response has kicked in and, God, does he feel like he’s owed a fight. Stiles swings his bat up, holding it just shy of the wolf’s left shoulder.

“But none of that matters because I have this beauty. A gift from that warlock I was talking about. Half science, half magic, and all whoop-ass, specially made for your kind.”

The wolf’s eyes widen by a fraction as the teen taps the bat on the wall next to his head and Stiles smiles in a way that would be almost sickening in any other context. But not tonight. 

Tonight he’s the last one standing and his fear is no where to be seen.

“The bat is made of rowan, better known as mountain ash, and infused with wolfsbane. Some charms that only unlock for my voice… Oh, and the silver core doesn’t hurt either. Not me, at least.” Stiles is now inches from the Alpha’s curled lip and sharp fangs, but his heart beat remains steady as he whispers into the wolf’s elongated ear. “It responds to will, and fear, and inner-strength. Which, let me tell you, pup, I’ve got in spades. Beware, I am fearless and therefore powerful.”

Stiles speaks the key phrase and the weapon begins to vibrate with a magic energy in his hand, not unlike Stiles himself. He skips backwards, plants his feet, and swings like he’s batting for the fences. A sickening crack echos through the warehouse and the Alpha falls to his knees, the gaping wound on the side of his head leaking blood and smoke. 

Stiles takes a step forward, standing over the injured wolf, face set, bat at his side. He grabs the Alpha’s chin with his free hand to make sure his unfocused eyes are looking in the human’s direction.

“Look into my eyes and listen to my heartbeats, and believe me when I say if you EVER come back here again, I will rip out your intestines and give them to my hunter friend to use as bow strings. NO one threatens this family; human, hunter, wolf or otherwise. If you manage to heal from this, spread the word. The Hale Pack is not to be fucked with,” Stiles grins and it feels as if he’s got his own fangs for a moment. “Especially that crazy-ass human. You got it?”

The wolf gives a stiff, minute nod, accelerating the dripping of blood down his cheek. Stiles steps back.

“Good. Now howl, little wolf.”

The Alpha lets loose one of the most pathetic howls Stiles has ever heard, so he puts it out of its misery with a quick, pointed blow to the left temple. He slumps to the floor mid-yelp and doesn’t blink back into consciousness.

Stiles wipes some blood from his face with his almost equally bloody sleeve and drags himself to Derek’s broken form. The bat falls from his aching fingers somewhere along the way, settling into stillness once more, but Stiles doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Most likely both.

He gently places his hands on either side of Derek’s face, his dark stubble tickling Stiles’ palms. 

“Derek? Derek! You need to wake up now. Please Derek, please be okay.”

Slowly, tentatively, Derek blinks awake, and Stiles releases the breath he’d been holding as soon as he sees the man’s sea glass eyes.

“Stiles?” He mumbles, “What happened? You’re not supposed to be here, I told you to stay away.”

Stiles gives a sputtering laugh and smiles, “Yeah right, Sourwolf. Can’t let you guys have all the fun.” He helps the Alpha roll into a sitting position against the cracked cement wall and continues to kneel in front of him. Derek looks around, still looking mildly disoriented.

“What happened to last Alpha?”

“That punk? He’s over there…” Stiles hitches a thumb over his shoulder to point to where the Alpha is silent on the floor. “I don’t think he’ll be getting up for a while. You didn’t text me.”

Derek has his head tipped back and is taking deep breaths to clear any wolfsbane from his lungs. “I was a little busy,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, well, let’s not make this a pattern, okay? I mean, I hate to sound like the overly attached girlfriend meme, but a little communication might be nice.”

Stiles lets his hand slide from the edges of Derek’s dark jacket, up his shoulders to his neck. He begins stroking small circles right over the were’s pulse, which draws a contented purr from his throat.

Despite Stiles’ slowly dropping adrenaline levels (the only thing that had kept him upright for the last 15 minutes), he takes a deep breath and uses his grip to pull Derek’s head forward. 

“Come on, dude, let’s get everyone else up and get out of here, yeah? This place gives me the creeps.” 

The teen leans in and gently kisses his wolf on the forehead. Hands braced on Derek’s bent knees, he stands, then offers a hand back to pull the man up. He comes up and pulls Stiles by his wrist into another tight embrace.

“Thank you, for coming after us. You didn’t have to do that. Just you and an Alpha… just imagining it scares me.”

Stiles pulls back and grins, honey eyes bright. “Yeah, but haven’t you heard? I’m the idiot human who runs with werewolves. I’m fearless.”

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot to write in Peter when I bled this onto my computer at 3 in the morning, so let's all just agree that he's... taking care of pack business out of town or something, 'kay? Cheers.


End file.
